


Jealousy

by Halja



Category: Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: Adultery, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Guilt, Jealousy, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Self-Esteem Issues, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Thoughts, written a looong time ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 01:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1532684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halja/pseuds/Halja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was not that he hated him, you see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jealousy

 

 

 

It was not that he hated him, you see. He had _never_ hated him – how could he?

Baldr had been there from the very first moment, and that had been years and centuries and ages ago. He was the ever-present hand resting on his arm, a touch sure and light leading him through roads and corridors he knew by heart. He was the smile Hodr could hear in his voice when he told him of Freya’s new gleaming jewels or of the angry red scars on the faces of the new glorious warriors in their father’s hall.

It didn’t matter that Hodr didn’t need the steady guide of his hand most of the time, or that in those times when he did need it he wished that he didn’t, that he could walk alone with no-one to steer him in the right direction. It didn’t matter if Baldr was so often busy talking to someone else, someone listening to his every word in awe as if the mead of poetry was dripping from his lips – after all, Hod sometimes found himself in awe of Baldr as well.

He had never hated Baldr, not really. That didn’t mean he hadn’t been jealous.

Perhaps, it was because of their mother, who always clung to her golden child, protected him from all harm, loved him. Perhaps, it was because of their father, who had so many children and would rather run off to Midgardr or Jotunheimr to have some more than be with the ones he did have already, and yet always spoke to Baldr in an unusually kind, warm voice – to Hodr, he was cold and dour and sharp as the North Wind. But maybe it was just because he had always known what would happen.

Perhaps, it was the whole of Asgard, or just Baldr’s lovely, faithful wife and his wise and honourable son.

Once, he had really thought it was because of Nanna, with her sing-along voice and her clear laughter and her warm, elegant hands. He had been wrong, of course. Nanna had always belonged to Baldr, anyway, and Hodr could understand why.

Perhaps, it was because everyone had always said Balder was as golden as the sun, as fair as its light, with eyes like the broad spaces of the high heavens. Hodr had never seen – would never see – the sun and the sky: he was a being of darkness, right from his birth, when light had been denied to him forever. There was no golden fame nor sweet warmth for him – all those things already belonged to Baldr.

All Hodr could ever hope for were delicate features under his hands in the dead of the night – a high brow, a smooth cheek, a mouth smiling and then opening silently to suck and nip at his fingertips - and the solid heat of his body pressed gently against him. _I’m here,_ said Baldr’s every movement, every kiss and every mark his teeth and lips made and Hodr could feel burning on his skin but never see, _I’m here and I’m not leaving you._ And then his brother would leave him again, one more time, between sheets that lost their warmth so quickly but were still soaked with sweat – because he was a honourable man with a faithful wife and a wise son and all the glory and respect a man could hope for waiting on his doorstep. 

Baldr had never really _looked_ for glory or respect – never had to – and that was what was so difficult to bear.

Perhaps glory was what made him open his fist and accept the thin arrow pressed into his palm – such a small thing, really, light and frail between his fingers. Oh, he _knew_ something was wrong: he recognised the voice and the sly, tempting smile in it, and he was willing to let himself be led by the wrong hand. He was blind, not stupid. Nor was he fooled by that cunning trick: he knew well not even Baldr himself cared if he joined in the games or not, and that Loki wasn’t usually one for spontaneous acts of kindness.

He thought it would be something cruel, something to be remembered until the end of the Worlds by skalds and wise men. He thought _he_ would be remembered, even standing at the edge of the crowd, just a forgotten shadow in a dark corner of a hall brimming with laughter and song.

He thought Baldr would remember it too, his kind, honourable brother who had always had everything – Hodr included – and who always left and found someone more important to talk to.

He never suspected it would be what it was in the end – frankly, he thought even _Loki_ had to have at least a tiny bit of common sense. He had escaped, of course, while Hodr stood there, his hand still raised and turned to stone as screams and pleas and cries filled his whole world all of a sudden, but they would find him: Hodr was sure of it, sure in the same way he was now certain of his own death. 

He never thought Baldr would die before him, Baldr who was the sun, the light, and all Hodr had never been and never could be. But, in the end, what did it matter? He would join him soon.

He had never hated Baldr, could never hate him, but he had always been jealous. He had _wanted_ to hurt him, wanted it in each dark corner of his soul – but he couldn’t believe his brother would actually ever die. And then he had killed him.

He would have liked to touch his brother’s face again, trace with his fingers shapes and edges he knew better than his own, feel him just _being there_ one last time, warm and sure and comforting. He would have liked to apologize, for everything.

He knew he would never have the chance to do it.

 

 

 


End file.
